Thursday, May 29, 2008

For whom do those sirens toll for?asked my friend, a hip girl. She tappedher ashes in a glass ashtray andsilently mourned someones loss.Do you do Hail Marys? I asked myfriend. She shook her head.Tap-tap-tapI wish that made a noise, said myfriend. I'm not a Catholic anymoreThat or I just don't give a shit anymore.

I'll pick one for you, I said to my friend.All right, said my friend. She groundthe butt of her cig and grinned.Go right on ahead.I say, it's because you just don't give ashit anymore.Why's that? asked my friend.Because you'll always be a Catholic---Nochanging that.Mmh, said my friend. She soundedthoughtful, if not hopeful. You mean totell methat that there's a chance I'll startgiving a shit again?

I was thoughtful too, if not hopefulI think there is no good choice here,I told my friend.I wonder for whom those sirens toll for?With any luck, they might be forme.Or me, said my friendShall we Hail Mary for it?I don't give a shit.

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

I'm eating cheesecakeI'm washing it down with Earl GreyI'm listening to Duran DuranI'm easily waiting to grow upAnd in my leisure timeI'm taking timed sophisticated sipsI'm forking down dainty fork-fuls of cakeI'm hitting the bridge with timed precisionTake me home British Pop SensationsI'm going to gorge myself with timeI'm going to get a stomach acheI'm going to regress to my former self.Take off my sunglasses when I wake up.

You ill reputed emotionanger.I can barely harness youw/o seeming amateurishI sound shrill not frightening.I'm disappointed, beatand torn and waiting totell my therapist all about it.The version I tell her will beindignant and rational, notannoying. But it's her jobto sit there and nod thoughtfully.You're a shoddily used emotionangerTo stifle myself I'll say nothing.Being full w/youis not satisfying.I turn out only petulant not frightening.

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

I've told a thousand stories, one more mundane than the last. I'm getting responses, mostly laughs, all at my expense. It's expensive and it predictable, but I keep telling them. If I didn't, then I'd have to write them. If I write them, there's a chance that no one will read them. I don't want to tell you about the way oil slicked water runs down a storm sewer. I don't need to tell you that the geese in my front yard are freeloaders looking for scraps of bread. You didn't ask, I know you didn't, but it's my job to tell you anyway. You dig? If I didn't tell you, I might have to write it down and then you'd really miss out. Did I ever tell you about the time I fell down an oil slicked water fall, down a storm sewer and onto the back of a subterranean goose who asked about the pieces of rye toast sticking out of my pocket?

Are you ready?For the stations and your children to call80's and 90's the oldies.Jesus, my mom is such ROOTP!(acronym for Really Old and Out of Touch Person)Spears' burnout will have to compete with Joplin'sand we'll shake our heads and muse: Remember?Oh yes, we'll say. "Hit me baby, one more time."Are you prepared? Did you fire up theteleporter this morning? Do you have pill-formsteaks on sale?

It's too cold to sit outside Targetand wait on the bus.That's why I'm sitting insidewatching people nosh before noon.A mother buys her toddler acookie, an elderly couple eatssalted buttered pretzalsA young woman walkes in w/oa purse and immediately ourstory takes a turn for the worst.Immediately, I feel uncomfortablefor her.Because there is nothing lonelierthan a purseless woman.Has she nothing to carry but herplain soul?Let's try and distract ourselves fromthe pretty face and unfortunate bodyThat will be the last sexist thingI write.You're wondering how will Iwarm enough to write about thehuman experience today?I want to sit inside and wait forthe bus.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

One month?It made no sense when I first heard it.There's no way I should feel better in one month.I thought about you just the other dayand I tried to make myself cry.I stood still for a moment and crinkled myface up. Waiting.Like a sneeze, it felt like it would comeand didn't. I willed salty discharge toEJECT from my eyes.I took a breath and tried again.No go.I want an iced coffee.One month? Ridiculous, I first thought.But it's actually starting to make somesense.

I'm getting to be that agewhere I have to call my mother "Mary"and not "Mom" in public. If I see herin the distance and call out "Mom!" sheand a hundred other middle aged womenare going to turn around and say,"What?"This won't work because I'm not readyto call her "Mary." Too weird.I don't think I know her that well to be soinformal.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Lying in the nook that is your arm, I never fell asleep.I didn't relax either. I stared at the ceiling, the crackin the wall, that box of something I can't identify. Iwonder when will the time come when you move andI shift.

I've got a toe cramp or a charlie horse, what do theycall those things? "It really depends on where you'refrom in the country." I can find my hair all over theplace and that's the only part of me that stayshere.

There's no other way to take this, or give it. I'mkind of wrinkled and sort of--- a lot of--- disheveled.The only way to get out of here is to escape fromyour arm. I'm not sure if I'm ready to gojust yet.

Yeah, you're right. I gotta get out of here. The crampthe horse, I don't know what the fuck it is, is actingas riotous as my pulse. But not in a sexy way. It's away that makes me wonder how much time I've gotleft.

The note in my Marble Memo Pad reads as follows:"Get some dental floss!"I don't remember writing it andI don't know what warranted the panic in my tone.Was I eating steak? Or corn on the cob?I haven't eaten cobbed corn in several years,but I know this note isn't that old.This must have been around the time whenI thought it was fun to walk around Wal-Mart'shealth and beauty aisle, throwing toiletries in abasket.Maybe it's not panic, but sheer delight, in my tone.I GOTTA "get some dental floss!" ASAP.But there's still something uncharacteristic aboutthis note. I wrote it on a slant as well. An upwardslant that seems to shoot for the clouds.I meant to write more important things in myMarble Memo Pad. The slant is the growingdisappointment that reminds me of being a girlwho filled her purse with toys before leaving home.Can't have an empty purse, now can you?Did I ever "get some dental floss!"?Only God remembers. I should ask him if I'mstill wanting for an answer.Written on a slant, filling a whole page like ateddy bear in a purse, it stands out blatantly.I couldn't have forgotten this.But somehow I did, I have blocked it outand for good reason too.

I walked a concrete catwalktaking in the dragonflies that passedby. I tried not to flinch.I was barefooted and it was hot.Had I more callouses I wouldn't havefelt how glorious the ground was.I count small miracles as I carryperfectly fine shoes. How can anythingever be "perfectly" and "fine" atthe same time?I carried fine shoes in my righthand, hooked on two fingers.Whenever I can, I take them offand those creepy dragonflies inwithout flinching at the warmrocks I step on or the long stainedglass wings. Have you ever seena more perfectly primeval fly?I have not.

Did you see how dark it was?Yes, I felt the impenetrable heaviness.But did you see what it was wearing?Clearly.Twelve white boys drove bybomblasting the same gangsta trip.That doesn't seem like a word. Was it as dark as we're used to?Probably not, but you know darkness.Yes, I've felt the impenetrable heavinessbefore.All right then.I saw the blackest eyes make oddreferences to old pop.How old?Old enough.How black are we talking?Black enough. I also want to say something else about the eyes. . .they mentioned something else.Something about darkness?They wouldn't dare. They don't know, notlike you and I do, about howdark dark is.Probably not.

Monday, May 12, 2008

“Oh Mother Millett, give meA sign,” is her mantra.But it’s damned hard to hear anything whenPapa Hemingway is in your face.She’s got a swagger that rivals JohnWayne but she cries about her hairyLegs. Oh kiddo, no one’s concernedAbout your willowy legs or your loveFor the girls.She smiles slyly and says: “Cooool.”But it might as well be awe and childlikeWonder that makes her grin. I told herRepeatedly to go Reckless into that GoodNight.The Jewish girl’s eyes widen and tellMe I’m crazy. WellI’m in good company.I’m over it, says she, the tall drink of water whoThumbs her nose jewelry.“I’m going to need the keys to your car,Papa. I’ve got a tree farm to head to.”Way to be Gentle, Miss Wayne.

Tell ‘em how it be, C.The man is black.I’ve no problem saying such a thing.Play me something funky andHe does. This kid never asks us forAnything. Just to bend our ears---I’ve heard his poetry and yes, we’reDoing this now. He’s guilty about lookingAnd sounding like a homeless white man. NotHomeless, but that hair. . . He’s got handsomeBrows and a silly grin. Poor kid.He’s going to explode like a dreamDeferred.Tell ‘em how it be, C.This man is black and he’s proud.Now play me something funky, E.

Just like Robert JohnsonI wanted to sell my soul toThe devil to return to you.Well--- not just like Johnson.I thought if I stood atMain and Oak and playedThe blues, it would lureThe devil and I’d return toYou. Just like Robert JohnsonI waited. Cars passed by andSome honked. “Take yourBlues somewhere else!” noOne is appreciative of myCorner quest. Did JohnsonHave to put up with this?No one, least of all, theDevil came to return me toYou. I was not asked for mySoul, though I would haveGiven it. If it would returnMe to you.

He keeps bitching ‘bout my atrocious alliterationFuck you, I tell him and then I showHim my cajones. He’s not impressed.He says my rhyme and meter are mediocreThat I have no sense of adventureOr heart. He calls me “girlie” and says somethingElse equally sexist. I light a cigar for himAnd ask him what to do about my last stanza.“What would you do?” I ask him and thenKiss his bearded cheek.

He’s a sucker for a feeble “girlie.”He says to blow it all to hell andStop before it all gets to be too much.With a flask of Jack in his DungareesAnd a shotgun in hand, he made it soundLike I had nothing to work with.Wildly weak with lacking alliteration,My own flask of Jack was nearlyEmpty before I called it quits.Only then did he cut me some slack.And I, being the affable girlie I am,Took it whole-heartedly.

It was a pre-buttered hand-job thatWent on longer than he bargained for.In his wallet, there was only a ten spot.Something that filled his belly would haveBeen more practical, but how do you put aPrice on satisfaction?

I never told anyone how much ITired of September. I never wantedTo stop living and no one consultedMe about it. Buildings fell and IWas suddenly un-American. But IAlready was. People wept and pointedFingers; held benefit concerts and waged wars.I retired to my bedroom and thought aboutThis poem.

I thought about not writing itDown that day, but five or sixYears later. By then, more of meWill have risen to show theirIndifference; such a powerful emotion.When the dust settles and the flagsStop waving and the celebritiesStop singing. When the body count isFinally tallied and the money is spentAnd we’re not distracted any longer.I will have written this poem and it won’tBe considered distasteful and insensitive.

I tire of September like you’llNever know. I’ve wanted to tellYou for so long. I still want to live.We never had to stop.

I want a classic story. I want itOld and outdated. I want itMildly sexist. There must beA girl, not a woman. She has to beYoung and pretty---big tits. There must beDrama and duress. I’m going to wantQuicksand and pit vipers. I want aA man, not a boy. He has to beTall and brunette w/dimples. He should beWitty and uncivilized. He’s got to beObnoxious and thoroughly fuckable. I wantTension that’s humid. I want someNear death experiences. I need someDanger and mosquitoes. Give me aFriendly token native. There will beVirgin sacrifices on alters. ThereforeVine swinging should be used. Give meMachismo. I wantHelplessness. I needPredictability. I could useTragedy. I would likeRebirth. I should haveRomance.

It’s dusk when a girl walks to the bus stop.Girl, you are beautiful, says a man holding out his hand.She hadn’t really heard him, just registered his hand.She laughs with wary eyes. He hasn’t registered either.What’s yo name, girl?Before she can make it up, she answers with confidence:Charish.Damn! I could cherish you.She’s forced to take off her headphones. We’re doing thisNow?I feel like I’ve heard this before, she says asCondescendingly as she can muster. She pulls her handAway.The wrong man has told you that.She laughs again. She’s tired.Flattered.My name is Mario. Where you from?Here.Let me get cho number.I don’t think so.I wanna talk to you.No go, Mario.I’ll give you my number.That’s okay.Her eyes are fastened on an approaching bus.That’s my ride. Have a good night.You sure I can’t get your number?

I want your number, but I’m going to forgetTo ask you.I’ve looked at you, spoke to you for---10 minutes, until my neck hurt and I had to stand.I laughed several times, maybe sixAnd my eyes are tired.Here I am now, but I’ll be there later.Are you high?No, a little, I’m just a little drunk.When I suggest we go have coffee IWant you to nod and smileWhen I walk about politics IWant you to be thoroughly engrossedWhen I walk away IWant you to watch in wonder.I forgot to ask you, didn’t I?

Behind closed eyes, his brain worksIt works like a chess playing poetWhat's next and what will impress?His slippery tongue runs over each holeand snakes across his own lipsThe vibrato, the bends, the trills theycome from the bowels of his soul andthey inflict him painfully.

His hands cradle each breathhis fingers move over each pieceWhat's next?How will I impress?The trains, the wahs, the guns theycome from his lungs and he breathesthem like fire

His tongue searches for answersand his lips make promisesThe cupping, the tremors, the blows theycome from his heart and theydestroy him from start to finishWhat's next?